The House of Atherton
by elodie
Summary: VERY AU: Nancy Parker left Marathon, Massachusetts for a reason. When she returns one summer to work for the mysterious James Atherton, Liz finds it her duty to discover what's really going on in Marathon, and what it has to do with her own destiny.


**Title**: The House of Atherton   
** Rating**: M for language, alcohol and drug use and sexual situations  
** Disclaimer**: If you recognize it, I don't own it. Many of the ideas here were based loosely, and some a little less than loosely, on Liz Berry's The China Garden, which is fantastic by the way.   
** Pairing**: M/L, CC   
** Summary**: Liz and Nancy Parker had been on their own a long time. When Nancy receives a job offer in her old home town, they pack up their things and move across the country to Marathon, Massachusetts, the home of the mysterious James Atherton. Liz uncovers a web of lies, deceit and mystery that runs deep through the history of the town. As she sorts through the skeletons in her mother's closet, she begins to realize that something is seriously wrong in the town of Marathon.**  
**

**Chapter 1**

"It's so green here," Liz murmured, staring out the car window at the lush maple trees rushing through her line of vision. The air was hot and heavy, so unlike the dry New Mexico heat she was used to.

Her mother nodded. "That was one thing I missed about the northeast. You'll love it in the fall. The leaves are lovely when they turn."

Liz turned to study her mother. Her red hair hung limply from a half-hearted ponytail and her eyes were tired, purple bags prominent due to her alabaster complexion. She showed no sign of interest or attachment to the landscape they drove through, her eyes focused only on the road. Her mouth was set into a hard line, an expression she'd been making for years.

"What's the town called again?"

"Marathon," her mother said quickly. Too quickly.

"What's it like?" Liz inquired, still studying her mother's face for any sign of emotion. She saw a flicker of anger in her eyes.

Her mother shrugged, not taking her eyes of the road. "Boring." Her fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, so tightly her knuckles were white. "It's just like any other town." She sighed, her shoulders sagging. "There isn't much to do besides swim or hike."

"I like hiking," Liz said tartly, playing with the power window absentmindedly. She was so used to their old clunker back in Roswell that had manual everything. Power windows and locks were a foreign concept.

"Stop that," her mother snapped, turning on the child lock.

Liz scowled and leaned her seat back, staring out the window more. She was sick of her mother's nerves. "I remember the house a little," she said quietly.

"You do?" Her mother's voice was surprised. Liz glanced up and was surprised to see her mother actually make eye contact with her.

She nodded, "Yeah. Not much, just brief flashes. I remember there was a sheepdog. And that the library was huge. There was a woman there who gave me a cookie after her son pulled my hair."

"Grace Guerin," her mother said softly.

"Who was she?"

"Claudia Atherton's daughter. From her first marriage."

Liz breathed deeply. The last time she'd been here was for Claudia Atherton's funeral.

Her mother let out a croaking laugh, surprising her. "Grace never could control Michael. He was always so wild." She glanced over at her daughter and smiled sadly. "Michael's probably handsome now. His parents were both very attractive."

"Were?"

She swallowed, her knuckles turning white on the steering wheel again. "They're dead."

Liz's eyes didn't waver, they stayed trained on her mother's face. "Oh."

"There's a lot you don't know about that town, Liz. I don't want you getting involved."

Liz scoffed at that. Her mother had been so ridiculous about her insisting that she not be left behind for the summer. "You said it yourself, that the town was boring. What sort of trouble could I possibly get in?"

Her mother shook her head forcefully, her voice insistent. "The people there, they're cruel and awful. Especially the Atherton's. I don't want you to talk to Mr. Atherton. He's old and heartless."

"Why are you going back then, if these people are so bad?" Liz pressed on, becoming more and more confused by her mother's tone. She was dead serious. This wasn't her mother trying to control her, she actually looked scared.

She sobered, her lips pressing into that tight line again. "It was good money."

"You never do anything for the money, Mom. I don't buy it."

Her mother shook her head. "Money will be tight the next few years, Liz. You know that."

Liz resigned, leaning her head back. Her mother was right. Harvard was going to be tough on their finances, but she'd received a good deal of financial aid. Money wasn't going to be so tight that her mother would abandon her convictions and work for people she despises.

She'd been surprised initially when her mother had told her about the job she'd taken back east. As long as she could remember, her mother had always been a chef at Chez Pierre, the nicest restaurant in town, and her mother had quit just like that to take a private job cooking for a rich old man in Massachusetts. Her mother had wanted her to stay behind, maybe live with her friend Pam, but Liz had insisted on coming. It wasn't often that she got out of New Mexico, let alone Roswell. Money had always been too tight to go on vacations and both of them worked too much to ever have much fun with each other.

"Besides, I thought a change of scenery might be nice. I figure there's something better for me out there than Roswell, New Mexico," her mother said with a cheeky grin. Liz couldn't help but smile. She'd had that exact same thought many times before.

"What were your friends like? In Marathon, I mean."

Her mother sighed, her fingers relaxing a little. "They were wonderful and terrible, all at once. I've already mentioned Grace. Grace Norwood was the most beautiful girl I ever knew, and one of the nicest. The only mean words that ever came out of her mouth were to her husband, Ben, and those were all in jest anyway. And then I knew Diane Baker, a lovely girl. She married Philip Evans, who took me to his prom. They were a few years older than me. Amy De Luca was my best friend, Philip's cousin." Her eyes darkened and her fingers whitened again. "Look, I really don't want to get lost, so I'm just going to concentrate on the road now. Why don't you read a book or something?"

Liz rolled her eyes. Her mother was lying and hiding something from her again. How can she expect her to trust her to tell her anything about her life, if she couldn't tell her own daughter anything about hers? She pressed her lips together much like her mother does and pulled a book out of her bag, curling up against the car door.

* * *

"Nancy! It's so good to see you!" 

Liz slowly climbed out of the car and stretched her aching muscles, watching warily as a pleasantly plump blond woman enveloped her mother in a hug. Suddenly she felt _tired_. This whole day, the tension the whole ride from the airport, the humidity, it all weighed down on her as if gravity had doubled.

The house in front of her was huge, a Georgian mansion with huge columns framing the doors, spanning three stories. It was white, the paint clean but beginning to peel in a few places. It had an air of relaxed grandeur that had been allowed to rot. The hedgerows lining the walkway to the front door were slightly overgrown, and the grass on the lawn surrounding was scorched and brown, unusual for just the end of June. Some of the bricks in the path were loose and broken.

Her mother's voice startled her out of her thoughts. "Liz! Liz, this is Diane Evans. Diane, my Lizzie is off to Harvard next year!"

Liz forced a smile and shook the hand the woman had extended to her. "It's nice to meet you."

Diane beamed, squeezing her hand tightly. "Congratulations! You'll love Boston. My Max just graduated from Boston University this month." Liz immediately liked the woman. There was nothing fake about her, she was just bursting with kindness and warmth. "Why Nancy, she's beautiful. Where did she get that lovely dark hair?"

Nancy laughed softly. "All her coloring came from Jeff. I'm afraid she only got my height."

"Lack of it you mean!" They both laughed. Liz couldn't remember ever seeing her mother this relaxed, another reason why she liked Diane. "I really shouldn't tease you about that, I'm not much taller."

Liz began to pull their bags out of the trunk of the car as Diane ushered Nancy over to the guest house, where they'd be living for the new two months. It was a small, old building, but in better condition than the big house. A few brick steps led up to a porch framed by white lattice, with potted plants framing the entrance.

"Oh, it's lovely, Diane," Nancy breathed, running her fingers lightly over the soft leaves of the geranium plant.

"Philip remembered you liked geraniums."

"He always remembered the most peculiar details."

Liz slipped past them into the house. It was more like a cottage, really, but the dusty elegance was still there, sweetened with a touch of country comfort. There were vases of fresh flowers on every flat surface, and cheerful pictures adorning the walls. She slowly climbed the old staircase, running her fingers over the smooth, ancient wood.

The stairs led up to a bright hallway, a large window at the end providing the light. Liz slipped through the door on her left. A cheerful bedroom greeted her, decorated in shades of Dutch blue and ivory. There were several windows, providing a panoramic view of the lake in the distance, and a screen door, leading to a large lanai. Liz smiled. This was her room.

She ventured out on the balcony, the screen door slamming shut behind her. There were a few chairs, and a chaise lounge. A bird-feeder dangled from the railing, and there was a pleasant yellow finch perched on the ledge.

This place was so foreign compared to New Mexico. She wasn't used to this moist, lush beauty. There was none of the yellow grass stretching for miles, or the loneliness of the vast plains. The dirt was dark brown and fertile, not anything like the dry, dusty sand of home. There were none of the kitschy tourist traps she associated with Roswell, and the people here seemed friendly and _normal_. They were just usual small town people, perhaps a little crisper and more sophisticated than the people from home, but she supposed that was just the northeast.

"Liz? Liz, where are you?" Liz's head snapped up as she heard her mother's voice permeating the stillness.

"I'm up here, Mom! I'll be down in a second." She reluctantly pulled herself from the railing and retraced her steps through her room and down the stairs. She smiled at Nancy and Diane as she found them still on the porch. "I picked out my room."

"The blue room?" Diane asked, her eyes twinkling.

Liz nodded, smiling broadly. "It's lovely."

"Liz, why don't you go out exploring," her mother suggested. "Diane and I have a lot to catch up on. You'd just be bored."

"Ok, sure Mom," Liz nodded, smiling at Diane one last time. "It was nice to meet you Mrs. Evans."

"Oh please, call me Diane. Mrs. Evans sounds so old."

Liz smiled at the friendly woman. "Sure, Diane."

* * *

The path that led the lake had been long and winding, and Liz was soaked with sweat. She cursed herself for not bringing her bathing suit with her. Not in the mood to swim in her clothes, or worse, _naked_, Liz wove her way back up to the big house. Noticing some people walking in the open front door, she decided to follow them. A sign next to the door indicated that a house tour would be starting in about five minutes. 

Liz paid the small sum for the tour and picked up a leaflet displaying pictures of the house from years past. It had once been in immaculate condition. Not a chip of paint loose, the silver polished.

A young blond woman entered the room and cleared her throat.

"Hello,"she said in a clear rich voice, her Yankee accent prominent, "My name is Isabel Evans and I will be your tour guide today." _Evans_...Diane's daughter? "This is the Atherton house, one of the oldest houses in the area. It was built in 1761 by Samuel Atherton. Samuel's claim to fame lies with his participation in the French and Indian War. He was a ruthless fighter and earned himself many accolades fighting in the war."

She began to back out of them room, gesturing for the small group to follow her. She led them to a large open hall. The walls were lined with portraits. Isabel stopped at the first. "This is the portrait of Samuel Atherton and his wife Cynthia." Liz couldn't help but notice that the woman bore a striking resemblance to her own mother. They both had pale eyes and long red hair. But lots of women have the same coloring, Liz reminded herself. Still, she couldn't forget the flicker of recognition she'd felt. Samuel was a handsome man, obviously muscular under the waistcoat. His dark hair was long and pulled into a tight queue, his eyes were a yellowed brown, staring out at her with a haunted glare.

Liz found herself shivering as Isabel continued. "Samuel built this house when he was thirty, in preparation for his young bride. Cynthia came from the wealthy family of Jessup, one of the original families that settled in Marathon. Their story came to a tragic end only five years later when Cynthia died giving birth to their son, Frederick."

The group shuffled a few steps to the right, over to the next painting. Two older women tittered to each other, clucking about a beautiful love story. Liz didn't know how beautiful it was supposed to be. The marriage was probably arranged anyway.

"Here is Frederick Atherton at age twenty-one, with his betrothed Eleanor Strocke, a cousin to the Jessups. They married about a year after this portrait was painted." Frederick had roughly the same look as his father, but his eyes were happy and danced with humor. Eleanor sat stiffly, looking almost uncomfortable. Due to what? Her marriage to Frederick, or, Liz laughed to herself, the tight lacing the portrait sitting required. She was a dark haired beauty, her crystal blue eyes piercing. "Frederick had been a drummer boy for the Continental Army during the revolution. They had five children, Charles in 1787, Elizabeth in 1789, Samuel in 1790, David in 1794 and Caroline in 1799. Charles inherited the family fortune, but threw it all away when he ran off with a kitchen maid, reportedly of Native American descent. That left Samuel to inherit. He wasn't prepared to run the estate the way his father intended and, according to legend, went insane with the pressure. He reportedly spent the rest of his life locked in an asylum. And so the fortune was passed to the youngest son, David."

The next portrait was obviously of David. His hair was jet black, his eyes a deep hazel. The girl next to him in the portrait was fair-haired, so pale it looked almost white. "He married Charlotte Alveshere in 1817, when she was seventeen years old. They bore a child four years later, Peter Atherton," Isabel continued, pointing to the next portrait. "Peter was an outspoken abolitionist. He created quite the controversy when he married Martha Reyburn, the daughter of a Southern cotton king. She was never quite accepted into the Massachusetts society. She killed herself in 1846, a year after the birth of their son, Cecil. The story goes that she convinced herself she was in love with her husband's cousin, Jedediah Jessup."

Martha stared out from the canvas with wide, sad eyes. She looked much different than the other Atherton wives. Her hair was a mousy brown, and her eyes were dark. She was slightly plump and had a very round face. All the other women had been thin and almost fairy-like in their appearances. Liz felt sorry for the woman. Looking at the date marked under the portrait, she realized that she'd only been twenty-one when she'd ended her own life.

"Their son Cecil was sent away to school in Boston, coming home only for the summer months. He rarely saw his father and became rather detached from the family. When he was seventeen, he ran off to join the Union army. He was wounded twice, the second resulting in the loss of his left arm. After the war, he became somewhat of a recluse. He was eccentric, hardly ever paying attention to women. He only concentrated on his studies. However, when he was fifty-five, he fell in love with Gloria Strocke, who was a lovely fifteen year old girl at the time. He waited two years before marrying her."

The two old ladies beside Liz clucked again. Liz felt sorry for Gloria. She couldn't imagine being forced to marry someone who could be her own grandfather. She changed her mind when she looked closely at the portrait. Gloria was indeed beautiful, with long red hair and bright green eyes. She looked happy and alive. Her husband, Cecil, had aged gracefully. He hardly looked a year over forty, had it not been for his graying hair and his missing arm.

"They were very happy together, although they only had a short time to enjoy it. In 1903, they gave birth to James, the current owner of the estate. In 1907, Gloria fell deathly ill from influenza. They say that her death made Cecil even stranger in his ways. Not much is known about his personal life from that point until his death. He became fiercely private, and the current Mr. Atherton refuses to comment."

So much family tragedy in such a short span of time, Liz thought sadly.

"That brings us up to James Atherton and his late wife, Claudia. She was born a Jessup in 1933. Like his father, James had to wait for his love to grow up. However, she snubbed him on her eighteenth birthday and married Lazarus Snow, a boy her own age and bore a daughter, Grace. When Lazarus died in Korea, James proposed once more and Claudia accepted. Nine months later, Thomas Atherton was born."

The portrait of James and Claudia was beautifully painted. James looked dangerously handsome. He shared the same general Atherton traits, dark hair, yellowed brown eyes, a strong jaw and an intense stare. His face was much more angular than most of his ancestors, robbing him of the gentle beauty many of the men had possessed. Instead, he looked almost hawkish, like a man who always got what he wanted no matter what. Liz shivered. He was not the kind of man she'd ever be attracted to.

Claudia was very soft, especially compared to her husband. Her hair was very pale and her face was round and dimpled. Her blue eyes were very intelligent and looked like they held many secrets. Liz remembered seeing the portrait the last time she'd been here, for this woman's funeral.

"Well," Isabel clasped her hands together, "Next I will show you the library. The Atherton's have amassed an impressive coll-"

"What happened to Thomas Atherton?" A college-aged boy spoke up.

Isabel looked a little uncomfortable. "I'm afraid I don't have the liberty to discuss-"

"Yeah," one of the old women interrupted, "Where's his portrait?"

"I-" Isabel was at a loss for words. "He-He died in 1975. Now, if you'd please follow me to the library. As I was saying, the collection is one of the biggest collections of first edition..."

Isabel's voice faded down the hall as Liz stared up at the portrait of James and Claudia. She couldn't tear her eyes away. There was something about this portrait... She shook her head, severing the connection. No, she had no idea who these people were. She shouldn't feel attached to them, it's just the heat affecting her.

Realizing the group had left without her, she hurried in the direction of Isabel's voice.

* * *

"You didn't find that too boring, did you?" 

Liz looked up from her coffee, startled to hear the voice of the tour guide speaking directly to her. She swallowed quickly and shook her head. "No, I found it fascinating."

Isabel smiled and took a dainty sip of her own coffee. "Me too. There's just something about this town. It may not seem like much, but the history here runs deep."

"You live here?"

"All my life," Isabel said honestly, looking a little sad. "I left for a few years for college, but I felt like there was something missing the whole time. As soon as I came back, I felt whole again. I know my future's here." She took another sip. "Where are you from? You're no Yankee."

"No, I'm from New Mexico," Liz said evenly.

Isabel raised her eyebrows. "Wow, you've come a long way. What brings you to Marathon?"

"My mother took a job here, at the house."

Isabel paled a little. "What's your name?"

Liz felt a little self-conscious at the look Isabel gave her. "Liz Parker."

"Y-You're Liz Parker?" Isabel paled more, "Oh my, I'm so sor-I should have known. Listen, ok..." Isabel babbled, trying to find the right words. Liz was surprised at her reaction. This girl looked like she never got flustered. "There's a party tonight, you should come. I could introduce you to the youth."

The corner of Liz's mouth twitched into a wry grin. "The youth?"

Isabel nodded, rolling her eyes. "It's down at the lake. It's walking distance from here. Just follow the loud noises," she laughed a little. "Look, I'm sorry I'm acting a little weird. You just surprised me, that's all."

"How do you know who I am?"

"I-" Isabel blanched, looking around nervously. "My mother is Diane Evans, the welcome committee," she said quickly. Her voice sounded a little fake. "Well, um, I've got to be going. I'll see you tonight. Come around nine. Bye!"

Liz sighed at her retreating back. Now she was more confused about this place than ever. Why was Isabel nervous that she was here? What happened to Thomas Atherton? And besides, what could explain these sudden feelings of recognition for a place she'd only been once and barely remembered at all? Something weird was going on, and she'd have to figure it all out by herself.


End file.
